


Out of the Woods (The Man in the Mirror Remix)

by msermesth



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Angst, Civil War II Aftermath, Coma, Death of Spider-Man Aftermath, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia Fake-Out, M/M, Multiverse Shenanigans, Secret Empire Aftermath, Selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-16 14:43:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13638336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msermesth/pseuds/msermesth
Summary: In the wake of Secret Empire, Steve tries to find solace deep in the forest and is surprised to find a familiar face doing the exact same thing.





	Out of the Woods (The Man in the Mirror Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laireshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Reflections](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12446972) by [laireshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi). 



> This is a remix of laireshi's "Reflections", in which two Tonys deal with the deaths of their Steves with sex. But why should the Tonys have all the fun/sads?
> 
> Set post-Secret Empire, but Ults!Steve is post-Death of Spider-Man (so approximately during Hickman's run). For people who aren't obsessed with the ultimate universe, Peter Parker has just saved Steve by stepping in between him and a bullet, and Steve grieves by going on a long trip in the wilderness. Just hand wave all the multiverse stuff—apparently the Ultimate Universe is back and the timelines don’t line up, anyway.
> 
> No beta. Bug me if something's wrong.

_Beep-beep...beep-beep...beep-beep…_

Steve listens to the steady sounds of the small transponder before shimmying into his sleeping bag. He moves it back under his shirt—close to his heart—and tries to focus on the stars twinkling through the bare tree branches and what few sounds the forest makes in the night. It’s a good sleeping bag, at least. StarkTech. Tony invented the fabric to keep them warm during their space missions and Steve tries to focus on that as he slides in and waits for it to reflect his own body heat. The idea of Tony protecting him—even after everything—cuts deep inside and without thinking, he pulls out the transponder again. It tones, slow and steady, lighting up every time Tony’s heart beats and Steve thinks about Tony lying in his stasis pod, and how useless he feels to help the man he loves.

The transponder will alert Steve the moment Tony wakes up, and Steve plans to be on a quinnjet the minute it does. That he’s here, in these woods, says something about how probable he feels that will be.

The sound of snow crunching breaks his train of thought and Steve slowly sits up and peers into the direction of the noise. He quietly lifts himself out of the sleeping bag and reaches for the shield, prepared to strike at the bear or whatever other animal that will finally step into the moonlight.

Or he is until a _woosh_ gives him a half-second warning that something is coming his way. He lifts his shield into the air to deflect it and shutters at the sound the oncoming object makes against vibranium-alloy. There are just a few moments after that to react, and he’s on his feet, ready to strike at anything that comes his way.

Except the person he’s gearing up to fight is looks much like himself. His beard is wilder, his clothes more torn, but he stands in the same position as Steve, with his right foot forward and his knees bent just enough that he can lunge either at or away from Steve in nanoseconds.

Steve cautiously puts himself in a position that looks less threatening but stays ready to attack because he gets the feeling it’s going to be his job to deescalate the situation. “Who are you?” Steve asks, trying to walk the line between aggression and authority.

The man looks like he’s surprised Steve doesn’t know. “Steve Rogers,” he grunts out.

Steve’s mind goes through a number of scenarios and remembers it wasn’t too long ago that warped version of himself was walking around and using his name. And that’s only the worst possibility—this man could be a Skrull or a clone or something he’s not even aware of.

Yet, Steve trusts him.

He doesn’t let his guard down completely, but Steve steps forward and offers his hand. “Me, too,” he says and the corner of his mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile.

His other self— _Rogers_ , Steve’s mind supplies—does not look convinced and just crouches a little deeper. “That’s impossible.”

Steve sighs because he knows he’s only one wrong word from a fight. “Do you really want to do this?”

“What are you?” The other asks, completely ignoring the question. “Clone? Chitauri?”

The other him is seconds from attack and Steve knows it won’t matter what he says. “How do I know _you’re_ not the clone?” he quips and then immediately lunges to the side to avoid the kick he expects. The man is good, clearly well trained, and the minute he regains his balance Steve ducks to avoid him, and then jumps at him in an attempt to restrain him. The man falls to his back just in time, using both his feet to push Steve behind him, and Steve connects with a tree. _Hard._ He doesn’t feel anything snap, but he’s going to have a decent bruise for at least a couple of hours.

Steve stands up, fists raised, and decides that the only way he’s going to be able to subdue Rogers is to overpower him. Without concern for his counterpart’s bodily integrity—if they are the same person, he doesn’t have to be—he moves forward and throws a punch that the other man blocks easily. That’s okay, though, because Steve uses the leverage of his caught fist to land a knee in Rogers’s solar plexus and follows up with a punch from his non-dominant hand in the kidney.

That elicits a “umph” from Rogers, but not much else. Effortlessly, the other man hits him hard across the jaw. Steve quickly begins to recalibrate his strategy because Rogers might even be stronger than himself.

He’s able to twist away and take a few steps back, but the other him isn’t interested in a taking a breather, and soon Steve is dodging punches left and right. Steve’s out of practice, of course—because it’s hard to find sparring partners out on the road—but he tries to keep up. He manages to land a few good kicks and tries to take advantage of his considerable agility, but all it’s good for is keeping him from sustaining serious damage.

Or it is until one blow hits him square in the chest and Steve’s heart stops when he hears a gross crunch of plastic and circuit boards. He screams, “TONY!”, drops to his knees in the snow before holding his hands to his heart, and clutches the pieces of the transponder against his chest.

Steve kneels there and takes big, gasping breaths. He’s waiting for, but not at all concerned about, whatever final kick this mirror image of him is going to deliver. When nothing happens, he looks up to see that Rogers is just staring down at him with the fight completely gone from his posture. “Tony?” he asks, and his whisper is full of concern.

The man may have attacked him, but Steve still feels like he can trust him, so instead of getting ready to defend himself, Steve reaches into his shirt and pulls out the mangled transponder. The plastic casing is completely smashed and the circuits are held together by small wires. Steve closes his eyes and holds his breath and for a few seconds he doesn’t feel anything—not the cold snow melting along his shins or the emptiness that’s been threatening to swallow him up ever since he returned from the Red Skull’s dreamscape. Everything is just still and numb and—

_Beep-beep._

Steve gasps for air like a drowning man who just broke the surface of the ocean.

_Beep-beep…beep-beep…beep-beep..._

“Oh, thank god,” he chokes out and there are freezing tears on his face. Steve gives himself a moment to get his breathing under control, and then says, “Do you have a Tony where you come from?”

The other one crouches down so that he’s eye level with Steve. “Are you talking about Stark?”

Steve nods his head, up and down, for long enough it makes him dizzy. “Yeah,” he replies, lamely.

“Yes,” the man confirms. “We have a Tony Stark. Why does it matter?”

Steve holds up the mess of wires and plastic. It’s still beeping, but quieter than before. Steve knows there isn’t a connection, but his mind instantly worries that the weaker sound means that Tony’s heart is losing strength. “Tony, I mean _my_ Tony, fell into a coma after a fight with a good friend.” Steve doesn’t mention that if Tony hasn’t trusted Steve so much, he wouldn’t have been in that fight at all. That part makes his throat tighten. “This transponder was given to me because people he loves thought I should have it.” Steve doesn’t intend to ruin that trust a second time. “It’s his heartbeat.”

The transponder keeps beeping and it’s all Steve can hear in the silence that follows. His mirror image is standing up and staring at him and Steve isn’t worried that he’s going to attack anymore. “Stark’s heartbeat, huh?” he eventually says and there is a strange sort of awe in his voice, complimented by an even stranger distance in his gaze. “Is he your boyfriend, or something?”

Steve knows that mocking tone and represses any desire to lash out because he realizes that there is a hint of fear underneath the cruelty. “No, just a good friend I owe a lot to,” Steve confesses—but leaves the truth of his own feelings unsaid—before he tucks the remains of the transponder into the inner pocket of his coat.

The last of his counterpart’s tension flows out of his shoulders, like he’s relieved to hear that news. “Stark’s a good man,” he says, and the way he does, it sounds like it’s the final word in the matter. “So who are you?” He seems to trust Steve, too. Finally.

“Steve Rogers.” Steve repeats and then quickly rushes to explain. “I don’t know how this happened... but apparently we’re the same person. I’d blame the multiverse, but that’s been gone for a little while now.” He shrugs. If they were in civilization, there were tests they could run to find out for sure, but here, in the dark, they have none of that. All they can go on are their instincts and Steve is only starting to learn to trust his again. Rogers looks just as wary as Steve feels, but Steve hopes that he is done fighting. This environment is too hostile to not work together. Staying warm is the priority, and the melted snow on Steve’s pants is beginning to freeze again. “Truce?” he asks and holds out his hand.

For the few seconds Rogers eyes him, Steve is sure he is going to have to prepare to defend himself, but then Rogers just puts his hand in his and shakes it. He has a firm, confident grasp. “Truce.”

“So what we know,” Steve says but doesn’t add _if our assumptions are correct and you aren’t a Skrull,_ before continuing, “is that one of us doesn’t belong here. Now I know some people who could help us figure it out, but I’m not sure wandering through the forest at this time of night is in our best interests.” Rogers nods. “Unless there is somewhere you need to be,” Steve adds, because in his experience these sort of situations only happen when he is in the middle of a fight with a super-villain.

A brief flicker in Roger’s eyes betrays some emotion Steve can’t trace, but it’s gone so quick Steve decides to just file it away for later. “I have nowhere I need to be,” Rogers declares, and Steve wonders if he talks with that amount of finality all the time.

“Okay,” Steve says and then ruffles through his bag, looking for his fresh, dry pair of pants and long underwear. He throws them over a low-hanging tree branch, and then slips off his pants and underwear, not even taking the time to undo the fly. He uses the dry parts of the fabric to quickly wipe away any moisture, and then trades them for the fresher ones. The whole process takes less than a minute, and when Steve looks up, Rogers is staring, and his expression is guarded and inscrutable. Steve shrugs. “I don’t want to get hypothermia,” he explains, though he’s sure any version of himself would understand that. “There is only one sleeping bag, and it’s already a tight fit, but it stretches and it’s better than one of us freezing to death.”

Rogers looks at the sleeping bag laying on a cleared patch of dirt and tightly nods in agreement. “We’ll figure this out first thing tomorrow.”

Steve silently agrees. He finds something about this man’s personality abrasive, and while Steve’s had to deal with worse, he’s eager to be free of him. At least, now, Rogers seems to trust him.

They shimmy into the sleeping bag—Rogers first, then Steve—and somehow it seems to fit them perfectly. They’re practically on top of each other because that's the only way it's going to work, and Steve doesn’t even ask if he can’t curve an arm around Rogers. Rogers doesn’t say anything about it and Steve is thankful that they won’t have to go five rounds about everything.

Steve can feel Rogers’s heartbeat through all the layers he’s wearing, and pressed this close against his back, he can feel the light vibration of the transponder beeping. It’s a strange contrast. Tony’s heartbeat is soft and slow, but Roger’s heart beats steady but fast, and only now does Steve have an idea that the man was under any sort of physical strain.

He smiles to himself and tries to focus on the transponder. Without trying he thinks about Tony sleeping peacefully and the idea calms him. It’s hard to disconnect the idea of Steve’s arm around the strong body in front of him, and Tony’s heartbeat right next to his chest. Despite resisting the idea, he still almost falls asleep imagining that it’s Tony he’s holding.

Then Steve jolts awake because something he wasn’t expecting happens.

Rogers’s hand—now gripping his arm—moves to cover Steve’s. There is an air of uncertainty with the act and Steve almost feels like Rogers is asking for permission. Steve finds out for what when he pulls Steve’s hand further down his body.

There is just a moment of confusion before Steve puts it all together and then rubs his hand against the bulge just below Rogers’ stomach. If he wasn’t so close, he wouldn’t have noticed the way Rogers’s body slightly tenses and his breath releases. Steve repeats the motion. “Just like the war, huh?” he says because maybe they have that in common, at least.

Something about that makes Rogers laugh, and Steve hadn’t even been aware the man _could_ laugh. “That’s what Stark said,” Rogers says, and it rubs Steve the wrong way because he used to do the same thing all the time. Calling Tony by his last name was a way of creating distance between the two of them, and it rankles that Rogers feels the need to do that when he clearly knows how much Tony means to Steve. Steve imagines what it must be like in Rogers’s head, hating a part of yourself so much, but his thoughts are cut short when Rogers twists around in the sleeping bag, laughing the entire time. “He used those exact words right before I told him to fuck me. You should have seen his face.”

Steve’s surprise is cut short when Rogers’s hand slides down and palms him confidently through his pants. His concern turns to jealousy at Rogers’s words, “You and Stark, huh?” he asks, and suddenly _he_ needs the distance.

The question must upset Rogers, because his face loses his mirth and his hand applies an uncomfortable amount of pressure on Steve’s hard dick. “Once in a while,” he says and Steve sees right through him.

He doesn’t ask for more details. He knows ‘once in a while’ with Tony would never be enough.

Rogers is now fumbling with the buttons on Steve’s pants and Steve simultaneously thinks _fuck it_ and returns the action, getting the minimum amount needed undone so he can slip his hand in and grip Roger’s cock. Rogers’s grunts in response and Steve tightens his hold, dimly aware that his grip is probably tiptoeing around ‘punishing’. When Rogers manages to take him out, Steve gasps. His body reacts like it’s been starved for years. Steve supposes it has.

Rogers’s hand is uncomfortably dry and the friction is would be too much if it didn’t seem to be doing wonders for Steve. It’s not hard to match him stroke-for-stroke. They both seem to know what the other likes, but the angle and the restricting clothing and tight sleeping bag and the lack of lube make it hard to actually make it work. Steve knows he’s having a problem following through with the little flick of his wrist he normally incorporates into his own technique, and there is no way he’d be able to reach down and hold tight on Rogers’s balls in the same way he likes.

Steve keeps his eyes shut tight and tries not to listen too hard to the grunts Rogers is making just past his ear. If he could get away with it, he’d pretend it was someone else, but very few men have the bulk Rogers does.

 _Tony wouldn’t be this heavy_ , he thinks, and he can’t un-think it.

Steve would point out how weird the whole situation is, use words like ‘strange’ or ‘surreal’; he wants to say off-handedly that ‘these sorts of things only happen to them,’ but he can’t. Honestly, the situation feels strangely normal. The orgasm building in his groin doesn’t give him pause or make him second guess himself—if anything, it’s not enough.

Steve’s only a month past a fist fight with his own evil reflection. Giving a handjob to a version of himself that’s been lucky to have been with Tony… well, there was a little bit of poetry to that.

Rogers’s grunts quicken right around the time Steve feels himself approaching the edge. Steve shuts his eyes even tighter—so tight pinpricks dance behind his eyelids—and doesn’t try to think about whether or not it’s Tony or anyone else on top of him. He never has to; Tony sits on the edge of his mind whether he tries or not, and right now, Tony shakes his head and has an expression that approximates fond judgment.

Given the circumstances, it’s the best Steve can ask for.

Steve comes first, but Rogers isn’t far behind. They lay there, silent except for their heavy breathing, and Steve tries to pretend Rogers’s weight isn’t crushing him. He feels gross and uncomfortable with his hands and pants covered in come and Rogers’s wet breath freezing on his neck. Rogers moves first, picking himself up and off of Steve and laying down at his side. The tight sleeping bag makes it difficult, but when Rogers is done squirming away, he manages to be as far from Steve as possible while still being squished up against him.

The moonlight coming through the trees bounces off the snow and Steve feels like he can see everything despite the lack of artificial illumination. He tries to focus on that and not on the strange hollowness in his chest that’s replacing all the desire he’d been feeling just minutes ago.

Rogers speaks first. “I killed one of the bravest men I’ve ever known. He was practically a kid… and, well...” he pauses and his voice is tight. Steve doesn’t need to turn over and see if he’s crying because he knows what it sounds like when he, himself, is trying to hold back tears. “He’s dead because I couldn’t take him seriously. He trusted me, and he’s dead.”

The need to confess is filling that hollow spot behind Steve’s heart and he can’t hold back from saying, “Hydra changed me. They changed me at my very core. They made me cruel and ruthless and…” Steve stops. He’s been avoiding articulating this since he came back. “Millions of people are dead. Just because everyone trusted me.”

Rogers doesn’t say anything and Steve doesn’t expect him to. He seems like the type of guy who’d prefer to fight his problems than talk about them. _We have that in common_ , Steve thinks. “I left the Ultimates and went off the grid after Peter’s death,” Rogers continues without acknowledging what Steve has said and Steve’s not sure if it’s a kindness. “And I miss him.”

Steve’s not sure what the ‘Ultimates’ even are, but that’s not what he wants to ask about. “You miss Peter?”

“I didn’t really know Peter,” Rogers answers, his voice straining under all the emotion he must be repressing, and then is quiet for a moment. Neither of them are breathing very hard anymore and in the silence Steve can hear the beeping of the transponder. “I miss Tony,” is what Rogers finally says.

Steve doesn’t think about it, he doesn’t have to. He knows exactly why Rogers’s voice breaks. “Me, too” he says and subconsciously places his hand over the part of his chest that sits next to the transponder. _Beep-beep...beep-beep...beep-beep...beep-beep_. “Tony might not have been able to stop m-” Steve cuts himself off, and tries again. “He might not have been able to stop _him_. But I think now, after everything, just seeing his face would make me feel like things could be right again.” It wasn’t the first time he had woken up in a world he didn’t recognize, but without Tony by his side, it certainly was the worst.

It’s quiet again, and that doesn’t surprise Steve. He’s sure Rogers is even less comfortable with his confession than Steve is and Steve is grateful for his silence. He’s not seeking comfort or absolution; he’s sure Rogers isn’t, either.

Steve didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he wakes up anyway, shivering in the grey morning light. The first he notices is that his dick is still hanging out of his pants and covered in dried come; the second is that Rogers is no longer next to him. It’s colder than it was last night and Steve wishes he could just be happy laying in his sleeping bag for just a little longer.

But he’s not.

Before, the restlessness deep in his bones kept him on the run. Today, he feels pulled in a different direction. He washes up with the little water he keeps in a metal canteen in one of his coat pockets and packs up as quickly as he can.

He’s sure he’s only imaging it, but as he jogs in the direction of where he hid his bike, the transponder feels louder, clearer, almost as if it is in rhythm with his steps.

For the first time since he woke up, Steve knows where he needs to be and he thinks Rogers woke up feeling the same way.

Once he has the idea, he can’t dig it out of his mind. He’s convinced Tony will wake up, and when Tony does, it will be Steve’s turn to welcome him into a world he doesn’t recognize.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post](https://msermesth.tumblr.com/post/171488177839/out-of-the-woods-the-man-in-the-mirror-remix)


End file.
